The savage, p.2
The Savage, page 2
‘We have instructions to wait. The other Salvatore driver’s on the way – someone tell him he needs to hurry!’
The other Salvatore driver. Dante.
Shit, my twin brother. He’ll lose his mind.
We’ve always joked that if one of us went out, the other would feel it first, some twin telepathy bullshit. Maybe he does. Maybe right now he’s hurling his helmet across the paddock, swearing to God and the devil both that I’d better not die before him.
‘Tell him…’ I try to speak, but my lips barely move. My vision fills with light, blinding white against the charred black. ‘Tell Dante—’
But it’s too late. The world starts to fold in on itself.
Sound tunnels, vision narrows. All that’s left is the scent of burning oil and lilies, the echo of church bells, and her face… soft, haloed and unreachable.
I can barely move my tongue. Or my hands. Or even blink. But it feels fucking essential that I speak my last word before the darkness claims me. And when I do, it’s not to pray for heaven or salvation.
It’s her name.
It’s always been her fucking name.
‘Giada.’
2
RENZO
Voices bleed through the dark.
They come and go like the tide, breaking against the edges of my consciousness before retreating into the nothing. At first, I think it’s the whine of the machines or the hiss of the oxygen feed. Then I catch the familiar rhythm beneath it – the gravel of Cesare’s voice, the clipped tone of Rafa’s temper, the quieter cadence of Bibiana murmuring in the background.
Hospital air always smells the same, like bleach and despair.
Even half gone, I can feel it seeping into my skin, leeching the fire from my veins. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out but as I catalogue the shit show going on in my body, I can just about guess how bad things are. Halfway through, the memory of someone’s voice – probably the doctor’s – returns.
Something about second-degree burns along my shoulder and hip, a cracked rib and a broken arm. But what everyone seems to be wringing their delicate hands about is a very bad concussion. Or possibly worse… brain damage.
Ha. Fuck.
Could be worse though. I could be dead.
But as I drift in and out, it’s Cesare’s voice I hear most often, even more than hers. Irritatingly. My brother’s deep, controlled voice, too calm to be anything but terrified.
‘The burns were minimal. You get to keep your good looks. That alone should make you wake up, eh? Dammit, you dumb, prissy fuck. It’s been days and this is getting old.’
A snort-chuckle rises and dissolves somewhere in my head.
And somewhere along the line, Rafa’s voice joins in.
I should stay unconscious just to piss him off a little longer. Or better yet, channel some psychic crap – summon a ghostly vision, whisper into his mind, Hand over your prized gun collection, brother. The one Nonno Orazio keeps threatening to throw into the East River every time Rafa screws up.
If only there was a way to communicate any of this.
But even if I could, reassuring my family wouldn’t be top of the list.
No. Number one would be—
Her.
Christ, why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about her?
If Orazio knew how many times I thought about the girl who shot my mother, he’d put a bullet in my skull himself.
I should hate her. I’ve tried… God knows, I’ve tried.
For years, she’s made me feel like a traitor in my own skin. Keeping her secrets.
Our secrets.
The snort in my head sounds harsher this time, edged with bitterness. Serves me right though.
Because long before Cesare fell for Maddelena Mancinelli, and Rafa kidnapped then fell for Sofiya Mancinelli, Giada Mancinelli was my secret.
Our family’s unspoken sin.
Even now, the memory burns hotter than the fires from the crash. Her name, her face, rise through the dark like embers that refuse to die. I try to push it away, but she lingers. Always has. I’m fearing she always will.
I remember Orazio’s volcanic fury when my mother died. I remember my father’s shattering silence, the worst kind of agony a thousand bullets couldn’t bring. I remember my mother’s body, the shock of red on marble, and the flash of Giada’s shadow as she fled through the church, her small, shaking hands covered in blood.
My mother’s blood.
But what came after…
That’s the part that hurts most.
Because I let my mother’s killer go.
Didn’t chase after her because I thought we would have time. For her to explain. To make it make sense.
But she fled without a backward glance and dropped into hiding more effectively than smoke vanishing into a confessional grate.
With every single answer she owes my family.
Owes me.
And every time I’ve come closer, she’s slipped through my fingers.
I allow my fury to build as another teasing image of my virginal traitor surges into my mind’s eye.
For whatever reason the Man Upstairs has decreed, I’ve been spared death.
Again.
It’s time to make better use of it.
Find answers once and for all. Even if those answers kill me.
A mechanical beep drags me closer to the surface. Somewhere near my right ear, Rafa’s voice grates through the fog.
‘All this fucking about playing dead just to get out of my anniversary party?’
If I could move, I’d clock him one. Hell, I’d at least flip him the finger.
‘Rafa,’ Sofiya’s voice cuts in, softer than usual, but still carrying steel. ‘He doesn’t need that shit right now. It’s just a party. No big deal.’
‘Fuck that. He’s always been a little—’ He breaks off with a huff. ‘I’m not pussyfooting around him just because he’s being a little shit.’
Typical Rafa. All bark, more bite than sense. But there’s something off in his tone – raw, tight. Beneath the bravado, he’s scared. I’d laugh if it didn’t feel like my chest was full of broken glass.
A spark of pain flares sharper than a blade to the shoulder I received as part of my initiation when I was sixteen. My pulse spikes and my insides go into free fall.
The monitors start to shriek.
Someone swears. Another voice joins in… Bibiana’s.
Cool, efficient, no tremor in her tone. ‘Calm down. It’s just his heart rate rising. He’s waking up.’
How the hell does she know all of that?
‘Renzo, can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me.’
I try. God, I would if I could, even if it’s to stop the caterwauling. But my eyelids feel glued shut. My fingers twitch instead. The faintest scrape against the sheets, but it’s enough.
‘Jesus Christ, he moved,’ Rafa blurts.
Sofiya again, firm. ‘Then stop yelling in his bloody ear, you idiot.’
A low laugh follows.
Cesare’s this time. Tired, relieved, the sound of a man who’s been holding his breath for too long. ‘About time, brother.’
‘It’s cool. He’s going to be okay. It’s cool.’
The sound of my twin brother’s reassurance calms me more than most. And yeah, I know it because he feels what I feel… most of the time. Even though right now he’s panicking harder than a priest caught with his trousers down in a Palermo brothel.
Then, chaos. Footsteps. Someone calling for a doctor. Hands gripping mine.
Pain swells up from the pit of my chest, exploding behind my ribs.
I gasp, or think I do. For a second, the world tilts, brightens, clears. I catch a flash of movement – Cesare’s outline against the harsh hospital lights, Rafa pacing at the window, Sofiya’s arms crossed tight over her chest, her eyes dark and gleaming with something that might almost be tears.
‘Renzo? Renzo, stay with us!’ Bibiana’s voice now. Always the calmest. Always the one who doesn’t break despite the shovels of shit life has thrown at her.
For half a heartbeat, I think I’ve made it.
That I’m back.
But the light sharpens, then fractures again. Pain hits like a freight train, and everything fades.
Silence.
Then warmth.
A different kind of light now, gold and dappled, soft as candle flame.
I know this place. I’ve been here before.
The echo of church bells drifts through the haze, mingling with the scent of lilies. My pulse slows and the pain ebbs.
And she’s there.
Giada.
Barefoot on the marble floor, skirts whispering against stone. Her hair’s shorter than I remember, darker. But her eyes – those eyes – still hold that impossible light, like forgiveness and fire all at once.
‘Renzo,’ she whispers and steps closer, her hand reaching for mine.
I should pull back. I should curse her, hate her, condemn her for what she did.
But… I can’t. My greatest sin in this goddamn life is that I never could.
Her fingers brush mine. Warm and soft and so fucking real.
And then the church dissolves into smoke, and I’m falling again – back into the dark, back into the sound of my name echoing through machines.
Renzo.
I try to hold on to her, to the memory, to the only piece of heaven I’ve ever known.
But she slips away like light through stained glass.
The Past
Three more nights.
I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin watching the seconds tick away.
Sure, the law would string me by the balls for pining after a seventeen-year-old three years my junior. But guess what? The law can get fucked.
For all intents and purposes, I’ve been an absolute gentleman where Giada Mancinelli is concerned. Save for a handful of torrid kisses and a few dozen thoughts that would make a saint faint.
I know worse guys than me who’ve broken worse laws. And as the youngest capo of the Salvatore family, I’ve seen men marry girls her age in the old country without anyone blinking or threatening to call the carabinieri. Not that I’m planning to marry the chick.
I just want her to turn eighteen in three days so I can finally part those satin-smooth thighs and—
‘—finally stop humping the air like a dog in heat?’
Dante’s voice slices through the haze of my thoughts. My twin’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, the usual smirk playing on his face.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. ‘Do you ever knock?’
‘Do you ever stop thinking with your dick?’
I throw a pillow at him. He dodges it easily, laughing.
Then his face – with features so identical to mine, I have to look away – turns serious as fuck.
‘She’s seventeen, Ren. And she’s fucking Mancinelli blood. You’re either insane or suicidal.’
‘Or both,’ I mutter. But do I give a shit? Fuck. No. I tried. I really did. But I’m grasping in a really bad way that there’s a good reason Nonno calls the Mancinellis cursed.
Dante pushes off the frame, crosses the room and plants his palms on my desk. ‘You tell me this girl’s worth it, I might believe you. Otherwise, Orazio will flay you alive, and Cesare will finish the job. Rafa’ll just laugh and bet on how hard you scream before you die.’
I shrug, pretending I don’t care, even though my pulse is hammering like I’ve been caught red-handed. ‘Let them try.’
‘Frate…’ His tone shifts, quieter now, something between admiration and warning. ‘First time I’ve seen you not give a fuck about the family. So I’ll say it again – she better be worth it.’
I look away.
Out the window, Manhattan glitters like a city of sinners waiting to be saved.
‘Fuck,’ I say under my breath. ‘I hope so too.’
Three Nights Later
Her eighteenth birthday.
Fucking finally.
The city hums below us, unaware that two of its most damned souls are about to play with fire inside holy walls.
Giada’s waiting for me in white. Not the blinding white of purity, but the soft kind… the shade of candle wax melting beneath a trembling flame. Her dark hair spills down her back, her fingers nervously twisting a silver rosary.
‘Happy birthday, beautiful,’ I whisper.
Her eyes lift to mine, all that light and faith and danger trapped in a single look. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Her mouth says the words but her body sings a different aria.
‘Story of my life.’
We’re in our place. The old cathedral downtown.
The one place our families know well but neither family would ever look because the very thought is sacrilege.
The same church where her father takes confession. The same church where my mother lights candles for forgiveness neither of our families deserve.
The same church where, years from now, everything will go to hell.
But right now it’s just ours.
She moves closer. The sound of her shoes against marble is the only thing keeping me tethered to earth. I can smell her – sun-drenched apples and holy water and something darker, headier.
‘You know what happens if anyone finds out,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘And you don’t care?’
‘Not even a little bit.’
I touch her cheek, and she leans into it. Her lips part, soft and trembling. ‘Then show me,’ she whispers.
The world narrows to the taste of her breath, the silk of her skin beneath my palms, the quiet echo of our heartbeats. There are no saints watching. Hell, even the devil keeps his distance tonight.
There’s only us – Renzo and Giada – standing on the edge of something neither of us can take back.
The shadows stretch, and candlelight flickers, warning us that we shouldn’t be here in the tiny side chapel hidden behind the choir loft I locked us in using the key I stole and copied three months ago.
Shouldn’t be pressed against the cool marble of the communion rail, where a lifetime of prayers soaked into stone now witness something far more dangerous.
But she’s trembling, looking up at me with those wide, luminous eyes, and I swear the cherubs watching from the stained glass bow their heads – not in judgement, but surrender. And for one breathless moment, time forgets us as I turn a virgin into a sinner.
Her breath catches as I lower my forehead to hers, whispering things no good man should say in a place like this: that I’ve wanted her for a year, that I dream of her mouth saying my name, then wrapping tight around my grateful cock, that I’d burn the whole damn church down before I let anyone take her away from me before I’ve fucked her sweet virgin pussy to hell and heaven and back again.
‘Tell me you want this, bella angel.’
When she whispers, ‘Yes, Renzo… I want this,’ I feel something inside me fracture with need.
I guide her to the cot, gently, reverently, stripping off her dress, pocketing pink panties she’ll never get back. Then I let her cling to me while she learns how desire feels – how my desire feels.
Every sound Giada Mancinelli makes after she surrenders her virginity to me is a prayer turned inside-out.
Every soft plea against my throat is a vow she doesn’t realise she’s making. I murmur against her ear, voice rough, telling her she’s killing me, telling her she’s beautiful, telling her she has no idea what she fucking does to me.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, trusting, terrified, burning.
And when the moment finally takes her… when she clings to me as if the world is tilting as she comes on my cock for the first time, my own control snaps.
And I shatter with a kind of breaking devotion I didn’t think I was capable of.
I hold her tight, whispering her name like contrition, like worship, like a curse meant only for her.
She buries her face against my neck, shaking, and I breathe her in like absolution.
When it’s over, her softness presses to me, and I revel in her breath warm on my skin, her fingers curled into my shirt as if letting go might undo the universe we just remade together.
I look down at her – flushed, trembling, forever changed – and I say it again, quieter this time, reverent and ruined: Mine.
Everything is different and yet the same in the aftermath.
The city still spins and the world still roars, but I can’t feel it the same way. It’s like I’ve been rewired from the inside out.
She changed the rhythm of my blood that night and every night after that.
Every gear I shift, every risk I take on the track, every reckless decision… it all leads back to that night. The night I touched something pure and ruined it with my hands. The night I decided I’d defy the world for her if I had to.
The night I became hers, even if she could never be mine.
The memory fractures.
A shriek of sound pulls me backwards to monitors beeping and voices exclaiming.
The golden light of the cathedral dissolves into the sterile white of the hospital.
Fuck. I’m dying for real now, aren’t I?
The Present
Cesare’s voice drifts through the fog first, steady and sharp as always. He’s pacing, probably barking orders even when I’m half-dead. Furia Racing can’t afford a scandal, not with the press circling.
‘The doctors say the concussion was quite severe,’ I hear him say to someone. ‘But they don’t know when he’ll wake again. Or if.’
If.
What a fucking word.
I fight it, dragging myself upward through the murk until my eyelids flutter open. The air tastes like metal and morphine, and the light burns like acid.
But, hey, surprise. I’m alive and I intend to keep it that way.
There’s someone in the chair beside the bed.
